In Chains

To anyone with even the slightest intelligence, the fact that the prisoner brought before him was a noble would have been apparent. There was a slight air of condescension and pride about him even as he was shoved forward onto his knees before Reaver. He threw out his hands to catch himself and sat back on his haunches, arms resting on his thighs, staring up at his captor with a look of lazy tolerance. The look was one Reaver often made himself.

Cigar smoke hit him right in the face, but he only smiled, a man who had faced the gallows before. Oh, and when he smiled, the prince looked so much like him. It was the same chiseled jaw, hard mouth with just enough stubble, bright green eyes alight with mirth like flickering lanterns, and high cheekbones made for stroking gently in the dark. When their eyes met, it was like electricity crackling in the air. Maybe the prince didn't know just how intimate his father and pirate had been, but he certainly acted like a man with superior knowledge of the circumstances. Why, if Reaver squinted, it almost seemed like the prince thought he had the upper hand. Just like him, it was as though he knew exactly what Reaver was thinking.

Using his cane, he tapped the prince under the jaw and forced him to look sideways. Right at the junction where neck met collarbone was a silvery scar, shining in the dim candlelight. Then he caught him on the other side so that they were eye to eye again. "I wonder if you remember who gave you that scar, boy. You were so very young at the time, after all, and it was such a traumatic incident. No doubt you've blocked it from your mind." There was a teasing note in his voice but also a daring one.

"You gave it to me," the prince said softly. Even that voice sounded like his.

"Did I?" Reaver smirked. "Oh, what a dreadful thing to do to a child! Hmmm, only that man's son could smile in this situation. I must say every aspect of breeding shows. There is no doubt in my mind that you are, in fact, a hero."

That smile got just a little bit wider. "Was it ever in doubt?" The moment he said it, a boot caught him in the jaw. The man's-no, boy's, for he was only eighteen to twenty, a child, really-head snapped back, the subtle crunch of bones popping resounding in the room. One of the completely useless mercenaries Reaver employed had taken it upon himself to exact punishment for speaking out of turn.

"You watch that mouth," the mercenary spat. Hair had fallen over the prince's face, soft and rich blonde silk just like his father's. When he faced Reaver with a grimace, there was blood sliding down his jaw, marring that perfect face. Reaver found himself suddenly furious, whipping out his pistol and shooting the mercenary without even looking at him. It had been so very long since he'd seen the king's face, even slightly distorted by the addition of new genes and younger in this boy. To think someone had the gall to injure it while he admired infuriated him.

The mercenary crumpled to the ground in a heap, and Reaver said calmly, "Everyone out. The next person that touches this boy without my implicit say-so will be shot without warning." They scrambled in fear, out so quickly that he barely finished speaking. When they were finally alone, Reaver sank gracefully into his chair, putting his feet up on the footrest just a few spaces away. He regarded the prince, remembering silently their first real encounter.

Oh, the king had frequented his house all right. When the woman he married couldn't quite scratch the itch he had, Sparrow came running, the old king always strong, always reluctant but wanting every time. When Reaver awoke the next morning, he would be gone, the bed cold. It was only later that he learned Sparrow left just after he fell asleep. He only stayed as long as he had to. How many times had Reaver thought of him over the years? Too many to be good for him, surely.

The more he examined the prince, the more of Sparrow he saw. In the face, they were a near perfect match, but their bodies contrasted greatly. Sparrow had been robust, thick with chorded muscle, while Christian was thin and wiry, his build subtle and attractive. Not a corroded scar in sight, nor a tangle of veiny will lines wrapped around his throat, latched onto his face like tentacles. No, the prince's will lines weren't visible at all at rest, though Reaver had seen them at the masque while fighting. They were bold, deliberate markings, like tattoos.

After three years of Sparrow's infrequent visits—Sparrow was always tired, so tired when he came, and when he came injured, he stayed away for weeks after—he had been crowned King. It wasn't so shocking, truly, as he owned every home in all of Albion save for Reaver's manor. He was a person the mindless simpletons looked up to, so why not? And as the hero moved his wife into a bigger mansion, she became sicker and sicker at the thought of her not being able to bear him an heir. Eventually she died. Reaver cursed his dreadful memory. What was the girl's name?

Sparrow's visits had become frequent after that, so frequent that Reaver joked often that he should start taxing the man rent. Then he disappeared, and a new queen was given to the people. Soon after, an heir was born, a squishy little thing that wailed loudly upon being presented. Sparrow had told him the story himself, sipping wine by the fire, not touching, just looking. Oh, and how Sparrow had liked to look. Reaver swore he took in everything, took it in and catalogued it to the very last detail. And then the hero had disappeared for good. He never visited again, and fifteen years later, Reaver visited him.

The little boy that met him at the door was the second born, lazy and serious, confident and unyielding even at that age. He looked, quite literally, like a lion cub with his thick hair sticking up at every end like a mane. When the guards had left Reaver alone with the boy, Reaver found himself at a loss. It was as though he were watching a younger Sparrow sit there and play with a small dog no bigger than if it had been born just a few hours earlier. The thought came to him suddenly that Sparrow didn't belong to him anymore, but to this boy, the other one, and their mother. A thought he found most displeasing.

Impulse had made him shoot three of the guards and with the heated end of his Dragonstomper burn the reversed R into Prince Christian's neck. To his credit, Christian hadn't even cried. And the R was still there on his neck, still shining even as the skin tried to heal itself. Sparrow could never belong to Reaver again, but Christian would always be branded as his own even if it wasn't in the same way. In that moment he had accomplished something, but what he didn't know. Sparrow had died alone, three years after his second wife. And now his son, the second Hero in all of Albion, was at Reaver's feet like so many years ago, still branded, still beautiful.

"Am I a prisoner?" his velvet voice asked, tongue darting out to catch blood that was still falling. "Or did you just bring me here to stare at me?"

"Such sarcasm," Reaver sighed. "I could shoot you, if you'd like, treat you like a prisoner? My boys haven't had fun for quite some time, and they get so bored so easily. Would you like to entertain them?" The threat was fleeting.

"Isn't that up to you?" Christian asked, peering up at him from beneath golden locks with luminous, piercing green eyes. After months outside, his prince uniform had become quite tattered, and the blood splattered across the breast was not very attractive. Reaver's men had bled all over him once he was subdued and clapped in irons. Christian's hair was unruly, still sticking up and badly trimmed as though simply hacked off with a dull knife. According to his sources, the Hero had some sort of Sanctuary to sleep in, but he hardly ever did so. Often the various bandit groups Reaver employed found him asleep in caves with his arm thrown across his sword, rifle in hand.

"Why, I suppose it is," Reaver said. "I suffer no delusions about your ability. You made it through my masque so obviously you're skilled. Oh, don't get it into your head that you can kill me. Yes, I've seen that look in your father's eyes so many times, I'm quite sick of it. You might be able to kill every simpleton in this mansion, but you're not fast enough on the draw just yet to beat me."

"So you brought me here to fight?" Christian lifted his head. "I know you're a Hero, too. I've heard stories about you from Father. We can both survive falling hundreds of feet. It would take at least ten bullets each." A spark of enthusiasm crept into his tone, but he didn't seem particularly thrilled about the idea.

"No," the pirate replied. "I didn't bring you here to fight. A fight between heroes seems like a long and boring process to me, and I have no intention of killing you just yet. Besides, I think you share my hatred of all things tedious, don't you?"

Instead of answering, the prince frowned. "Why did you bring me here, then?"

"Such a child!" Reaver chuckled. "Patience is a virtue, my dear man. It seems I've found the one spot where you and your father differ."

Christian's face darkened. "There are others."

"Oh? Well, I'm curious to learn them," he replied. His jeweled fingers curled around his cane, and he tapped it twice on the floor. A maid bustled in, head down, cheeks red. "Find our guest here something suitable to wear, and then put him in the cage." The cane touched his chin to lean his head back. "You can kill her if you like, but I have your weapons."

Two of the mercenaries strode in and took him by the arms. "What cage?" Christian demanded, muscles tightening as he tried to fight them. "Reaver, what cage?"

The cage, to be precise, was the one hanging in his bedroom. In the old mansion where he'd hosted the masque, he also had a cage in his bedroom. It was basically for show as he couldn't imagine ever using it for anything other than role-playing, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd bothered with that. It hung two feet off the ground, made of thick bars and black steel. Of course, Reaver couldn't leave him in there for very long, but it would do for a while. Until he figured out what his own intentions were.

After several gallons of hot water were thrown on Christian, he was dressed in a fine-fitting, princely suit that was similar to the other one he'd worn earlier. The men even handcuffed his hands behind him instead of in front, threading the cuffs through the bars. He was quiet during the whole thing as the cage rocked back and forth and the men pointed and jeered. Four hours later, Reaver entered the room with a bang, throwing the door open and firing off a shot at the wall. Immediately, Christian was startled out of his semi-conscious slumber, and he sat up ready for a fight only to wrinkle his brow in confusion.

Wrapped around the pirate in a most improper way was a prostitute. Christian probably didn't consort with women like her, but it was clear in the glossy smear of her lips against his cheek and the well-accented curves of her body what she was. Reaver was counting on Christian recognizing the signs. Also, she was hardly dressed at all which made the boy snort and glance away after getting an eyeful. Reaver chuckled and let his cane fall to the ground. The whore wrinkled her nose, white makeup shining in the dull light.

"Already have a friend in here, don't you?" she said, burning with jealousy. It was clear in the way she wound an arm around his waist and hugged him tight, plump breasts teasingly close. Reaver kissed her to shut her up and kicked the door shut.

While Christian was no probably stranger to sex—Reaver could spot a virgin a mile away, and Christian was far too attractive to have lasted long in that regard—the pirate was sure he didn't want to watch. Well, Reaver wasn't going to give him a choice. He trailed open-mouthed kisses down the prostitute's neck while she swatted at him and giggled annoyingly. All the while, Reaver had put her back to the cage and was watching Christian with hungry eyes. The boy's luminescent eyes were staring at him curiously as though he were a particularly difficult puzzle to figure out. Sparrow had often stared at him like that.

"Does your…friend want to play?" she asked, running her greedy fingers over his gold buttons. "He's…so quiet."

"He doesn't talk much," Reaver nibbled on her ear. Christian rolled his eyes and yawned, sliding his knees up to his chest and ducking his head. The movement was oddly endearing. A vision of Sparrow collapsed against the railings on his front door flashed before his mind, pistol in his hand. The woman divested him of his coat while the prince softly drifted. When the coat hit the ground, Reaver whipped out his pistol and lodged a bullet in the wall just an inch away from the prince's ear.

Christian's head snapped up at the noise, eyes wide with alarm, tattoos glowing with will. The smell of burning metal filled the room immediately. Oh, the prince was ready to fight. He was even melting the handcuffs. Reaver laughed as the woman trembled against him, throwing an arm around her back and pulling her closer, encouraging her to keep going.

"Keep your eyes open, boy. You may learn something," he chuckled, trailing the barrel of his Dragonstomper down the curve of her back.

"What is the point of this, Reaver?" he asked. "Is this some sort of punishment?"

"Why did you invite me over so I could see her in your bed, Reaver? Is this some sort of sick punishment?"

"The comparison is truly uncanny," he whispered against perfumed flesh. "Would you like to take her place, little prince?"

"Is that was this is about? Sex?" Oh, how those fiery eyes burned!

The Dragonstomper went off, and the prince heard the whore gasp as a sizeable wound appeared in her abdomen. She grasped at Reaver's shirt as she sank to the ground. Reaver let her body drop with a thump, blood staining his clothes. He stepped over her easily, her pale, delicate fingers curling at his shoe, and walked up to the cage.

"This is about possessions, my dear boy," Reaver smirked. Christian hadn't so much as batted an eye. "And you belong to me. You have since the first day we met."

The prince stiffened. "I don't belong to anyone," he snarled.

The pirate laughed aloud. "I seem to have struck a nerve!" he exclaimed. Leaning close, he said, "Your father thought the same thing, and in the end he was wrong."

Christian's eyes did widen at that. "You're saying that my father…belonged to you?" Suddenly he became angry, wiggling against the cage, his weight making it sway. "Did you brand him, too? Is that what happens to us? Will you brand my son, as well? Any daughters I might have?"

"Don't like that thought, do you?" Reaver chuckled. "No, your children won't hold any fascination for me, but you…that's another story. You're his exact copy, bold and self-righteous and too benevolent for your own good. He never gave in without reluctance either."

"You're keeping me here because of some sick fascination you had with my father?" Christian repeated, blinking. "And you'll let me go—what, after I admit I'm some sort of possession of yours? You're crazy, Reaver." His will lines exploded with life, sky blue sticking out from pale flesh as he charged up a spell. That same smell of burning metal filled the air as the handcuffs melted like wax. Bits of the hot metal stuck to his wrists as he pulled them apart as though they were made of putty. Rolling to his feet—he could barely stand up in the cage as it wasn't quite tall enough to accompany his significant stature—he curled his fingers around the thick bars. Reaver watched the entire display with a sort of bored satisfaction, but his thumb did come to rest on the hilt of his revolver.

"Let me out, and we can have a proper fight. I don't want to burn your mansion down," the Hero said calmly.

"Oh, how considerate of you," the pirate mocked.

"I'm not going to kill an entire house full of servants just to end your miserable life, Reaver," he spat, angry smoke coming from his fingers as he melted the thick, black bars. "My father would never have done it."

A dark chuckle only made the boy light the bars on fire. "You'd be surprised at what your father did to get revenge. Did you know, for instance, that he once sacrificed the youth of an innocent young girl in place of himself?"

"For you," the prince said softly. "He did it for you." The bars crumbled into dust like desert sand in Aurora falling through his fingers, only black. Still, he'd only made a small hole in the cage, not one large enough to fit through. Reaver kept his hand on his revolver.

"Because of me, you mean," Reaver corrected him nonchalantly. Then he blinked because the boy's eyes darkened suddenly as Sparrow's often did after a long debate in his old mansion. The prince put a hand to his eyes and smiled bitterly to himself, and Reaver actually felt a pain in his chest. Was it possible that this boy was even his own being? How could he not be Sparrow reborn?

"Go away, Reaver," Christian said, sitting back on his haunches in the middle of the cage and closing his eyes. The cage swayed with the distribution of his weight, but he managed to stay upright. "I'm tired of talking to you. Either shoot me or let me go."

"Go away, Reaver. I'm tired of playing your sick games. Either shoot me or admit you can't."

"Oh, I could," the pirate promised the both of them, "but what a waste that would be."

Reaver left him in the cage, retiring early from the party downstairs to sip wine in his night clothes quietly in his study. The entire room was replicated from the one in Bloodstone. Had it really been fifty years already? He found that time often slipped away from him after a new sacrifice to the Shadow Court. To think that it had been so long since he'd last seen Sparrow alive and that his son now sat in his bedroom, unwillingly, was slightly astonishing. Oh, how he'd wanted to murder the woman that captured Sparrow's heart in the end. In those times—what had it been? Months? Years?—that Sparrow had fallen into a drunken and desperate stupor after the death of his first wife and stayed with Reaver for so long, he found himself becoming attached to the Hero. Gaining the affection of the pirate was a hard won battle, and then Sparrow had disappeared without a word. He had learned from an unfortunate young delivery man that Sparrow was once again married.

During his musings, the last vestiges of his party exited the building, and his servants silently toddled off to their rooms. Reaver hardly slept anymore without a chalice of wine and a warm body next to him. The nightmares should have been dying out as he lived on, but the passage of time didn't erase a single detail of his memory. Then the death of Sparrow was added to the fray, not caused by him but a terrible thing nevertheless. How awful it had been to see such a strong thing waste away under comfortable bed sheets when he had always wanted to die in battle. Beautiful, powerful people, Reaver felt, should die in the thick of things, always fighting. And that had been Sparrow, always fighting. And so it was Christian, aiming to butcher his own kin for Albion. What did one have to do to possess such fine blood, so sacrificing and driven and kind?

The idiots in the street didn't know what a treasure they truly had.

Reaver did. He understood fully what he had in that little cage in his room, and he knew he could not keep the Hero forever. Just like with Sparrow, sooner or later he'd have to let the bird out of its cage to save the world.

Before he knew it, he was setting down his wine and walking through the blood red halls of his mansion toward his bedroom where a bed of gold and lush blankets awaited him. Just off that room in a little alcove was where the prince resided, probably snoozing quietly if not guardedly in the metal cage. It was where Reaver had his private parties, away from the prying eyes of finer society. Just remembering the degenerates he'd let into that room made him feel slightly giddy.

Then he was standing in front of the cage, steady as the prince slept softly in the middle to distribute his weight. He was flat on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes while the other was slung across his flat stomach. If there was one outstanding difference between father and son, it was that Christian's skin was pale. Sparrow had never been dark-skinned, but over time the sun had done its damage. It was clear that Christian was nobility.

With quiet and deft fingers, Reaver undid the latch on the cage. It made no sound as it opened, and Reaver reached in, one hand closing on the prince's soft, leather boot. Christian didn't stir. For a moment, the pirate wanted to chuckle at how easy it would be end the boy's life. All it would take was just one bullet in the brain while he slept, and the Hero of Albion would be no more. Of course, there were too many opportunities and uses for the boy at that given time to do something so drastic. Reaver had realized that at the masque.

A hard yank startled the prince from his slumber as he was pulled out of the cage by his ankle and onto the ground. The cage was upset by the loss of weight and wobbled dramatically, almost knocking into Christian's head as he fell with a thump on his back. Reaver gave another yank to drag the boy farther away from the cage, most likely giving him rug burn on his back from the friction. When Christian was safely away from the swinging metal, Reaver set a heavy boot on the boy's abdomen and smiled down at him.

"Good morning, my dear prince," he sang cheerfully despite his somber mood. "Tell me, did you sleep well?"

Christian blinked lazily up at him before raising an eyebrow. "You can't possibly think I'm going to fight you while you're in your pajamas." It was true that Reaver had dressed for bed, fully intending to get some sleep that night. White cotton pants hung off his slim hips and over his heavy boots. His pistol sat safely in its harness even as he was getting ready for bed. It wasn't ideal fighting gear.

"Fighting wasn't what I had in mind," Reaver said with a tilted smirk. "You see, I was sitting in my study when I thought to myself that it was entirely your fault I killed my entertainment for this evening." The dead whore had been dragged out by several of his men, the blood cleaned up by maids used to such things. "Don't you want to make it up to me?"

The prince's face became nearly horrified. "You must be joking. Giving me to the mercenaries, I could understand, but doing it yourself? That's repulsive, Reaver."

"Forcing you wasn't what I had in mind," Reaver said unwavering.

"So what did you have in mind, then, entertainment-wise?" he asked, confused.

"Exactly what you proposed," Reaver said, leaning down to grab a handful of his shirt. They were almost nose to nose, those luminous green eyes almost drowning Reaver. "You're going to want it."

The prince gritted his teeth. "Over your dead body," he spat, thrusting his head forward to collide with Reaver's with a nasty crack. The pirate stumbled back as Christian rolled to his feet, fire between his fingertips. When the prince glanced up, there was a pistol aimed at his forehead, and Reaver never missed.

"That was a rather crude trick," the pirate said calmly. There was blood from a split lip dripping in a thin line down his chin. He ran a tongue over it, and the skin began to knit back together. "Whatever happened to honor and proper fighting?"

"Oh, what did you expect, truly?" Christian demanded hotly. "Did you think me a whore that would simply wilt with your slightest touch? No, if that's what you're after, you're going to get a fight."

Reaver smirked. "This is exactly what I wanted." He aimed his pistol down and squeezed the trigger. Christian threw a fireball at him at the exact same time, weak with the loss of his gauntlets that were sitting in Reaver's study. Still, it caused the pirate to duck out of the way as a bullet imbedded itself deeply into the bones of the prince. Christian cried out and fell hard on his elbows, no doubt the pain intense as it traveled up the length of his leg all the way to his hip bone. Indeed, Reaver never missed. The pirate's hair had been slightly singed by the fireball, but other than that he was completely unharmed. When he glanced back, Christian was easing himself across the floor with one leg and his arms, sprawled out on his back. The power of his Dragonstomper .48 could bring even a Hero to his knees.

Electricity crackled in the air, and Reaver was surprised to see the Hero summoning his magic again. "What do you hope to accomplish?" the pirate demanded. "In my home with hundreds of mercenaries, how far can you get?"

"As far as I need to," the prince gasped in pain, that fine blood staining Reaver's carpet. All of a sudden, ice was falling from the sky. It wasn't just pebbles of hail one might experience in Mistpeak Valley, but large sword-like piece of ice that could impale anyone standing beneath it. Reaver drew his pistol and began shooting the falling bits into smaller pieces that shattered on the ground. One of them fell and caught his left bicep, blood dripping down. When the storm dissipated, Reaver glanced around to see that the Hero had gone.

Of course, Christian couldn't get far with a blood trail that size. Reaver kept his pistol down, following the trail carefully. If there was anything he had learned in his time with Sparrow, it was that when they were fighting, all bets were off. Sparrow would never have killed him, though. Christian? He wasn't certain.

As he walked out of his room and into the main hallway, a flash of pale skin caught his eye, and he grabbed the prince's fist before it could connect with his face. When the second fist tried to catch him in the stomach, Reaver caught it, too, his pistol going off randomly into the wall. The prince was stronger than Reaver was, but the pirate managed to turn Christian around so it was his back facing the staircase. Then, he crashed their mouths together.

Christian froze in what Reaver could only imagine was shock as he nipped far too gently for the circumstances. Their eyes were open, brown meeting blurry emerald, and it was just like kissing Sparrow again. After digging his fingernails into Reaver's wrists, Christian seemed to relax. Once Reaver smirked however, Christian's arm went around his neck and they were falling backward. The Dragonstomper fell from his hand as they both toppled down the stairs. When they landed at the bottom, Reaver decidedly more sore than he had felt in perhaps a hundred years, he grabbed his pistol and turned around only to feel the tip of a sword at his throat. Christian was fairly close, and Reaver put the barrel of his pistol against the boy's temple. Upstairs, people were yelling, and Reaver realized they must have heard the commotion.

Three of his mercenaries were at the top of the stairs with their rifles, and Christian glanced toward him, panting. Reaver smirked and touched his cheek with a gloved hand. "Don't worry, lover," he purred, "I wouldn't let them ruin our game."

"To the void with you," Christian snarled, pressing the tip deeper into the hollow of Reaver's throat. Nevertheless, Reaver shouted up at them.

"Get out of here, you worthless staff. I could have been dead three times by now. What a useless lot of mercenaries!" With varying reactions, all of them eventually put their weapons down. Reaver raised an eyebrow at Christian. "Your leg has already healed, but I wonder if you could survive a wound to the head at point-blank range."

"Can you survive with your head cut off?" the prince countered.

"I'm certain I could shoot you before you could decapitate me," Reaver said nonchalantly as though they were only speaking of the weather. "Would you like to give it a go?"

Hesitating—and this was where they really differed because Sparrow never hesitated—the prince backed up, climbing away from the tangle of their knees to bring the sword up at the ready. Reaver didn't have his cutlass with him; it was somewhere in his study. Climbing elegantly to his feet, again the two of them were opposite of one another, weapons at the ready. Christian was charging up a nice fireball in his left hand, sword in his right.

"Where does this go, Reaver?" Christian asked. "Say I do—I don't know—submit to you or whatever, then what? What have you accomplished?"

"A bit of reliving the past, I should think," Reaver said, waving his gun around in a circle. "You have no idea how absolutely boring it can be living forever. "

"You're lonely? That's it?" Christian demanded, astonished.

"Bored," Reaver clarified before firing off another round straight at the hilt of the sword. A massive clang rang out in the room as the bullet ricocheted followed by a clatter as the sword fell to the ground. Christian's spell fizzled out in his hand as he yelped. The prince growled in frustration and cocked back his arm to throw a crackling ball of lightning at him. Reaver ducked, and suddenly the prince was too close. An elbow crashed into his ribs, and he fired a round into the soft flesh of Christian's upper arm, point-blank. The bullet went straight through the flesh and out the other side, but Christian still threw his weight against the pirate, and then they were outside.

It was still dark, but dawn was breaking. Both fell down the steps with a cry of surprise, the fresh air taking the breath out of them both. They rolled down the concrete steps and landed in the grass and dirt. Christian sputtered and flipped over, ready for an attack as his hand flew to his bicep and clamped over the bleeding wound. Reaver had really had enough. He put his pistol in its holster and hauled Christian to his feet, kissing him again hard and more insistent. This time, Christian was too dazed to fight back.

Reaver dug his fingers into Christian's shoulders, the boy wincing in pain as he got too close to the wound. He nipped at his bloodied mouth, tasting mortality and that fine, forgiving blood—it was a tie to Sparrow he hadn't had in so long. Leaving his mouth, he trailed kisses down the boy's jaw, feeling stubble and the swallowing muscles in the boy's neck as he went down to the collarbone and sank his teeth in gently.

"Damn it," Christian swore, grabbing Reaver by the front of the shirt and hauling them both backwards. Again they fell, only there was water to catch their fall this time. Reaver plunged deep into the water, the cold destroying the pleasurable haze he had begun to experience. He was certain that Christian hadn't given in just yet and that he was still itching for a fight. Eventually Reaver swam upward, head breaking through the surface of the water as his short, wet hair fell over his forehead. He began to swim in the direction of the tiny bridge in the middle of Bower Lake. When he got there, his fingers dug into the soft, wet dirt and he was standing there feeling more alive than he had in thirty years. None of the whores in his company had ever provided such a fine chase or a fight. He realized his heart was pounding with excitement, and there wasn't a woman or man of ill repute in sight.

He trudged up to the building part of the little island. Lying there on the floor was a drenched young prince who was panting softly. He twitched in panic when Reaver approached, but it seemed that a night without sleep and weeks away from his home in Brightwall was taking a toll on him. The bruises beneath his eyes were apparent, and he was still bleeding from the wound on his shoulder. Reaver kneeled down and took his hand, kissing the knuckles as though they had been lovers forever. The gold of a ring caught his eye.

"Married, are you?" Reaver asked and wondered why no one had told him.

"Her name is Beryl," Christian replied in monotone. He glanced at Reaver. "She's pregnant."

"Ah, I see," the pirate replied. "Trying to be faithful can be fun for a while, but have you ever had this much of a thrill with your pretty wife?" His fingers wiped a few strands of hair out of his eyes.

The Hero chuckled exhaustedly. "No, I haven't." When Reaver kissed him this time, the prince offered no complaints.

Reaver's fingers quickly found the buttons on his shirt, removing them one by one and carefully pushing them off his shoulders. The blood had already stained the cloth, and there would be no saving it. All the while, Christian plunged his fingers into Reaver's hair, the blood from his split mouth flavoring their kiss even as the skin healed. He must have knocked his mouth on the concrete steps as they fell. Christian moaned when bare skin met bare skin, and Reaver grabbed his hand, interlacing their fingers and slowly slipping the ring from his wet fingers. It clattered to the hard ground with a quiet ping, but Christian paid no mind to it at all if he heard. Everything became desperate at that moment, a desire that Reaver hadn't known he had bubbling to the surface.

Christian's fingers went to his holster, removing the object from around his waist and setting it carefully to the side. Reaver was surprised he let the boy do so, but as long as the pistol was near him, he didn't care. Besides, Christian wasn't going to be fighting him for a while. His kisses became lazier as he nipped and licked at the bruised lips of the whimpering boy. Then he trailed his fingers down the boy's abdomen and closed his hand around the boy's member. Christian moaned into the kiss, nails digging into Reaver's bare back as he arched. Breaking their kiss for breath, Reaver pressed open-mouthed kisses down the scars and will lines of Christian's chest, pumping his hand in a quick rhythm that had the boy writhing beneath him, breaking the skin on his back with sharp fingernails.

The pirate's mouth latched onto a single, pink bud, lavishing it with his tongue. Christian's hands went down his back, sending a shiver up his spine, and rested on the curve of his lower back. Reaver's hand stopped its pumping, ignoring the disappointed groan, and touched the boy's cheek, drawing him into a kiss that had them both panting.

A hundred sexual partners later, Reaver knew how to please both men and women equally. More importantly, he knew how to please Sparrow. And as he sat back on his haunches to remove the boy's pants, he figured if they weren't the same in that regard, Reaver was smart enough to figure it out anyway. As he drew Christian into his mouth, he was rewarded with a moan that would probably wake all of Millfields. It did, momentarily, occur to him that they were having sex in the middle of Bower Lake where the nobles congregated like well-dressed flies. Sparrow would never have done such a thing. Reaver found himself liking the youth more and more.

Swirling his tongue around the boy's sex, he watched him moan and writhe, one hand on his head to keep him there. It didn't take much more to send him over the edge, and Reaver made sure not to swallow everything. As Christian panted on the ground in the aftermath of his orgasm, Reaver stood up to remove his pants quickly, the rising sun catching the rippling muscles and smoothness of his skin. When he kneeled down again, he was coating himself with the semen and drawing Christian into his lap. Sparrow had never had sex with a man their first time, always ashamed of his desire for men instead of women. Christian didn't seem to have any such qualms and knew the steps, even closing his hand around Reaver's manhood and pumping in time as he crawled into his lap. It was a new time, Reaver supposed, trying to think around the foggy haze of pleasure in his brain. Sitting up with his back against the pillar, Reaver bit back a groan as the boy sank onto him. The pirate bit the boy's shoulder, licking at the wound when he drew blood. What a sight they must have made in the morning light.

Reaver moved quickly, the tight velvet around him making him moan along with the boy. Christian hadn't even wanted any preparation, and Reaver suspect that maybe he liked a bit of pain during sex. Voices overhead pierced and picked at their personal bubble as they moved against one another, but neither cared. Reaver had a little piece of Sparrow in his lap, and he wasn't going to let him go. He kissed him again, thrusting particularly hard and gripping the back of the boy's neck. Christian groaned as he hit the spot again and again, sending him over the edge. Reaver followed soon afterward, and they collapsed onto the ground, tired and dirty and sticky.

Moving over to the side, Reaver threw an arm over his eyes and closed a hand around his Dragonstomper just in case. A sheen of sweat covered his entire body, the pleasurable afterglow of good sex improving his suicidal and tense mood exceptionally. A scraping sound to his right had him opening an eye. The boy was putting his ring back on, and he shot Reaver a tired smile.

"And where are you going?" Reaver asked.

"You don't seem the type to be bogged down by emotional turmoil," Christian said. "And I don't cuddle."

Reaver sighed. "Neither did your father."

"So unless you want to ask me to divorce my pregnant wife to marry you, then we don't have much to talk about, do we?" he stated, searching for his pants.

"Talk?" Reaver inquired, getting to his feet. He grabbed Christian by the shoulder and put the reversed R right against the scar on his neck. Of course he would leave. Sparrow always had. "After only one round? Come now, surely you're not that exhausted."

Christian cast a glance at him, eyes stormy and concerned. "I can't, Reaver. Not again." Just like that, he walked away, leaving his weapons in Reaver's mansion and a bloody, soaked, and entirely irate pirate behind to mourn the loss of a warm body and enjoy the post-coital afterglow by himself.

He really was just like his father.

I love Reaver. Thanks for reading. Review please.